Origami Flowers
by dedic8ted
Summary: She declines his offer. After all, she works alone.


**Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.**

**AN: This was written a while ago so in light of recent events it may or may not be AU. Post-ep 1x11 "Home Invasion."**

...

She still remembers the day she met him.

...

It was a sunny spring morning at the Strauss Gallery in New York City's Upper East Side. Easing out of the leather-upholstered driver's seat of her black Porsche Carrera, she planted five-inch stiletto heels firmly on the ground and ascended the steps. She was about to push through the glass-paned mahogany doors of the gallery before he reached out and held them open for her.

She always liked a gentleman.

The red soles of her patent leather peep-toes click-clacked against the marble floor as she joined the rest of the group—a gathering of New York's finest art enthusiasts, distinguished and wealthy and very, very blue-blooded. She wore a designer silk minidress that showed off her toned, tan legs, and she blended right in.

Accepting a goblet of Cabernet from a tuxedo-clad waiter, she strolled leisurely around the room. The rare Picasso collection was being unveiled today—and she was among the select few invited to see it.

Never mind _how _she obtained the invitation.

She was examining a particularly exceptional work when she felt another presence behind her, and, turning around, she recognized him as the man who'd opened the door.

"What do you think?" he asked, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling.

She took a sip of wine, leaning her weight on one Louboutin heel. "It's gorgeous. The brushstrokes really capture the freedom of the painting."

"I agree," he said. "You can tell he liked doing this one." His smile was dazzling, one most girls would swoon after. She, who could break half a dozen hearts with a bat of her eyelashes, did not swoon. Especially not in the company of a handsome stranger.

The gallery expert was talking about the Picassos, on loan from a museum in Paris. There were security cameras and motion detectors and bulletproof glass cases, virtually impossible to break into.

"Isn't that a bit excessive?" she remarked quietly to her new acquaintance with a raise of her eyebrows.

He shrugged, adjusting the 1950s vintage Rat Pack fedora perched on his head. "Well, higher security means they're just more valuable—you know what they say. Things desired are things protected."

"Oh?" Her glossed lips turned up slightly at the corners in amusement. "Where's your bodyguard then?"

There was that million-dollar smile again. "Where's yours?"

Harmless flirting, she told herself. Nothing more. Besides, she wasn't here for the art. Actually, she was—but not in the way he thought.

"I'm Neal, by the way," he said, shaking her hand.

"Alex. Nice to meet you."

Not until later did she realize who he was. Eleven o'clock p.m. that same day, to be exact. Night fell, and she was in the gallery parking lot for the second time. She locked her car and slid into a black wool coat, shielding her body from the brisk New York winds. Pulling on a pair of black leather gloves and carefully slinging a large bag over her shoulder, she approached the gallery doors. She knew where to avoid the security cameras positioned outside from the trip this morning, and she blocked her face from view as she rummaged through her coat pockets exasperatedly, giving the impression that she was a very busy person who had misplaced her keys.

A lone man was sitting at the desk doing paperwork, and when he saw her at the door he immediately stood up to let her in.

"Who are you?" he questioned.

She looked up from her pockets in a precise expression of thinly veiled surprise. "Oh! Sorry. I just…I think I forgot my keys at home or something." Gesturing to the bag cradled in her arms, she explained. "I'm new here? They told me to drop this painting off and set up for tomorrow."

The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Can I see your badge?"

"Um, yeah. Of course," she said, and removed from the front of her dress a white plastic card with her headshot on the front, attached to a delicate silver chain around her neck. She'd memorized the employment badges earlier, and they were easy enough to duplicate.

He relaxed, settling back on his chair and grinning lecherously as she unloaded her bag. "Amy, huh? You know, Amy, fifty is the new thirty. Mature men know how to treat you well."

"Is that right?" She could barely conceal her disgust, not only at his balding head but also at the beer belly threatening to bulge out of his pastel button-down. Not to mention he was easily old enough to be her father. "I'll just finish up here. You can go home, if you'd like."

"Sure thing. See you around, Amy," he winked, and gathered his belongings. "Oh, and don't forget to reactivate the sensors for the night when you're done."

After he strode through the door, Alex smiled to herself. Score. That was almost too simple—she hadn't needed the lock picks…or her soldering iron. Never underestimate the power of a beautiful girl, even in a city where beautiful girls were a dime a dozen.

Pretending to scribble out forms until he was safely out of sight, she unzipped her bag and extracted a 22 by 30 canvas. It was a nearly exact replica of the Picasso she'd been looking at during the exhibition, painstakingly crafted with swift, wide strokes of oil paint aged to appear just right. The only discrepancy between the two was the letter A—miniscule, practically undetectable—at the bottom left hand corner. Her signature.

She was proud of her work. Gloves still on so as not to leave fingerprints, she quickly replaced the genuine Picasso with her counterfeit, sliding the authentic painting back inside the bag with the greatest caution.

Done.

It'd be weeks before they'd notice the work was forged.

She was just zipping the bag shut when she heard the telltale sound of…a lock pick? She froze, and knew it couldn't be a police officer or the gallery owner—they wouldn't have to break in. At least she was safe from that.

She never carried a gun. In her business, she'd learned that if you needed one it was probably already too late. What else did she have to defend herself? Hastily hiding the bag from view, she grabbed the first object her hand came into contact with. A stapler.

Was she going to staple the intruder to death? Still, it was better than nothing.

Slowly, she turned to confront the trespasser. Competition, she figured. It was, after all, a priceless piece. Fine, maybe not priceless. There were people—the people she catered to—who could put a price on anything. But precious just the same.

There was something so familiar about the way the person moved that she shook her head in disbelief. It wasn't…

"Alex?" came an all-too-memorable voice. She shouldn't have dismissed him as just another art collector.

"Neal."

"What are you doing here?"

She released her grip on the stapler when it became clear he had no weapon. "Same thing you are."

"Touché," he said pleasantly. "I must admit, very impressive."

"I _am_ known for impressing."

He extended a hand, but she refused it and clasped the bag to her chest. "We'd make a good team, you know."

"Sorry," she said, not really meaning it, and smirked. "I work alone."

Nevertheless there was a nagging thought in her mind as she slipped the prize into the trunk of her Porsche and congratulated herself on a job well done. What if she regretted the offer?

Then she caught sight of an origami flower stuck in her windshield wiper. Unfolding it, she could make out the scrawled note on the paper.

_If you change your mind._

_Neal (212) 478-6325_

She smiled. He was charming. She'd give him that.

...

That was seven years back.

She's a fence now—gave up the artist lifestyle a long time ago. It's safer and more profitable to be selling instead of taking, but there's a certain thrill in seeing your own masterpieces in a museum.

Still, she's older, smarter than she was before. After a heist gone wrong—the only one, thank you very much—she's learned her lesson. A thrill's not worth dying for.

She hasn't seen him in five years. And now Neal Caffrey is in town again—or, in fact, he has never left, so really just out of prison—and he needs her help.

It has to do with Kate.

Alex has never liked Kate, to be honest. Maybe it's nothing. But maybe it's because she understands the glaringly, painfully obvious: Kate only wants him for the money. Maybe it's because he is much too good for her.

Then there's the issue with the FBI. If Neal has switched sides, it's only a matter of time before she'll face twenty-six counts of theft, forgery, and fraud. Even so, she holds the power. She holds an amber music box. Can she trust him?

"C'mon, Alex. I'm begging you. Please."

"Neal, I…"

He sighs, resigned and desperate, his palms spread on the table before her. He's always been a hopeless romantic. "You work alone. I know."

"Though I suppose I could make an exception."

He smiles, not the dizzyingly bright grin that he flashed during their first encounter, but a beam of pure, unadulterated gratefulness. She's turned him down once—she's not about to do it twice. And this time, she doesn't regret it.

Because deep down, she knows she can't always be alone.

She'd rather be with him.


End file.
